De Profundis
by kezya
Summary: Postseries. The alcalde begins to realize that he isn't going to return to Spain anytime soon...


A/N: I was inspired by a few sentences from icyfire's _Jade's Story_ and, I dunno, this kinda sprung up. Please, I normally don't resort to begging, but I've seen so many stories go unreviewed in this corner of ffnet... Could you please, please review? I swear I'll review you back at once. Please? *puppy dog eyes*

**De Profundis**

Everyone sometimes has those days when it would be better to stay in bed. The reasons may differ, but it all boils down to one: those days are thoroughly wasted. Nothing you attempt works. The simplest matters turn out to be fraught with difficulties. In the evening you only want to lie down and die, or possibly go to sleep and wake up in a slightly better mood.

_Alcalde_ Ignacio De Soto was having one of these days. They seemed to happen to him on quite a regular basis recently. He would wake up in the morning to see bright light pouring into his room through the window, a prelude to the merciless heat of the day, and unpleasant thoughts would arise in his head. He tried to fight them by sitting at his desk, gathering any overdue paperwork and doing it well into the night.

Such was the case today. De Soto was sitting at his desk, supporting his head with his left hand, holding a pen in the right. The sun – blinding already, though it wasn't noon yet – cast dancing reflections on an unfinished report in front of him. His pen had halted over the paper in mid-sentence; _alcalde_'s mind was far from the pueblo of Los Angeles, far from the hot and dusty California.

He was thinking about the beautiful Madrid, thousands of miles away. He had left it on his own request – and now he couldn't return. He recalled the hopes he had set on the position of _alcalde_ in Los Angeles. Catching Zorro was supposed to bring him fame and further his career. And what happened...? The masked outlaw laughed at his efforts, his soldiers and himself, and remained as elusive as when De Soto had first arrived at Los Angeles.

Usually it made the _alcalde_ furious. But sometimes – _often?_ – disheartenment stirred in him... and something else, too, a bleak feeling, bringing to mind dark nothingness.

_You will never return to Madrid..._

Emptiness, yes, it was emptiness. After years of chasing his ambitions and ruthless fighting to accomplish his goals, he found himself in a point from which there was no way out. He had tried everything and everything had failed. There was nothing left to fight for.

_...unless in shackles, to be tried for your incompetence!_

He... strange, but he didn't even feel regret. It was as if he was only a dispassionate onlooker, observing everything from a safe distance. None of his plans succeeded – maybe they couldn't succeed.

Nothing ever changed – maybe nothing could change.

There was a pistol on his desk. De Soto reached out for it and remembered about the pen in his hand.

From time to time he thought he was disintegrating, loosing bits and pieces of his soul day by day, hour by hour. His thoughts, feelings, memories eluded him and dissolved in the void, leaving only apathy behind. The orderly world of _Alcalde_ Ignacio De Soto was breaking as he watched into small shards, cutting deeper than glass. If he still fought, it was mainly to keep up the appearances, to grasp that something that continually threatened to slip from him. _(His sanity?)_

The ink had run dry. The _alcalde_ dipped the pen in an inkwell and scribbled two short sentences under the official report. He placed the pen in ideal symmetry to the paper – the adjective 'pedantic' must have been invented specifically to describe Ignacio De Soto.

Madrid. So beautiful at this time of the year. Madrid always is beautiful

The pistol suddenly appeared in his hand; he didn't remember picking it up. He rose. The sun made his head hurt. The sky was oddly pale, as if it faded from the heat. Snippets of conversations drifted in through the open window, but he barely heard them.

Was this the gun he had shot Resendo with? Probably. He had thought that it would be more real than the rest of his surroundings. Apparently, he had been wrong. The weapon felt dead in his hand, as devoid of weight and shape as everything else around him. No, it wasn't quite true. Clutching the pistol, he knew that it felt like warm, smooth wood and cold metal; he knew it like he knew that the sky outside was blue. Simply, deep down, it had no connection to him. No importance. Nothing was important.

He looked down. _It would be a waste of a decent carpet..._ He kicked it aside and raised the pistol. The weapon was cool, deadly and strangely unreal at the same time. He pressed it against his temple. Nothing. He could probably push it all the way through his skull and still not feel a thing.

To die in this godforsaken little pueblo, having first experienced defeat and disgrace... It was almost comical.

_Why aren't you laughing, Ignacio?_

"Mi alcalde!"

His hand fell back. "What is it, Mendoza?" he snapped, automatically adapting the harsh tone he always used when talking to the soldiers.

The door opened, revealing the familiar pudgy frame of the sergeant. "Letters from Monterey..."

"Leave them here and get out," De Soto ordered, hiding the pistol behind his back.

Once Mendoza had left, the _alcalde_ walked back to his desk and sat down. He put the pistol away. Before he opened the first letter, however, something else caught his eye.

_Inform my sister. I'd like to be buried in Spain, if that can be arranged._

'What did I try to do?'

_Why ask if you already know the answer?_

He crumpled the paper and put it in is pocket. Then he opened the first envelope. As he was reading it, his eyebrows shot up. Obviously Spain needed more money, because the governor was ordering a special tax, to be collected in two weeks' time.

The inhabitants of the pueblo had nothing left to give, he knew it perfectly well. The enforcement of this new tax would drive many peons to poverty.

_What of it? They can't hate you any more._

'Oh yes,' he admitted, while standing up and buttoning his uniform up to his neck. 'Indeed, they can't hate me any more.'

*****

A/N: Now that you've read it... review? *puppy dog eyes again*


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